


Indulgence

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Addiction, Caring Greg Lestrade, Control Issues, Dark Mycroft Holmes, Eating, Food Issues, Holmes Brothers, Implied Lestrade/Sherlock, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Jealous Mycroft, Kidnapped Mycroft, M/M, Mind Games, Mycroft Has An Eating Disorder, Not Season 4 Compliant - no Eurus and Redbeard is a dog, Past Drug Addiction, Sibling Incest, Triggers, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, food addiction, holmescest, secrets of the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 23:25:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18108650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: Mycroft has been kidnapped and is being held captive in a locked up room. But to his surprise things don’t go as expected and instead of facing his kidnapper he has to confront some well-buried memories and secrets from his own past.Contains food issues, underage Sherlock and incest, so beware of the tags.





	Indulgence

Strangely enough the thing he has the most difficulty with is the food. 

At first it’s just pure stubbornness, it’s ingrained in him to be on a diet these days and besides, he doesn’t want to eat anything on offer from people who are keeping him captive.  
His initial stance is to just keep cool and indifferent, not give in to anything, reveal nothing. It’s not even an effort, it’s almost like any other day in his life, except for the circumstances.  
The room he’s being kept in is simple, containing a bed, a table, one chair and a toilet in the corner. An actual toilet, not just a bucket or a hole in the ground which he knows is standard under kidnapping circumstances. Nothing is uncomfortable, just plain. The chair is even a pretty good one, cushioned, and the bed isn’t that bad either. Not what he is used to at home of course, but up to the standard of a three-star hotel at least.

Then there is the food.  
Same thing there, it’s not poor or disgusting which is the usual case. Not that Mycroft has been held captive before, but he still has the knowledge of these situations, having instigated some of them himself. 

It’s not only the mere essentials either, like bread, porridge and water – it’s actual meals, cooked and well presented on a plate. Better than prison food, better than what he knows children eat at school.  
Better than some of the restaurants he knows his brother frequents with that man from Scotland Yard who seems to lack both taste and money but is still inclined to take his brother out to dine on occasion, trying to have a relationship with Sherlock beyond work. The man is stubbornly insistent that Sherlock should eat and sleep regularly, Mycroft supposes that he should be grateful that someone besides himself cares, but it always irritates him more than it satisfies him for some reason.

The food is medium standard, just like the room, a little what you would expect from an average lunch restaurant or perhaps a food truck. Not that he eats at lunch restaurants or food trucks for that matter, but he has seen his brother do it.  
He knows Sherlock eats chips for example.  
Mycroft isn’t sure if he’s ever tasted chips in his life, not in the form his brother eats them, from a greasy chip shop, eating out of a newspaper cone, drizzled in vinegar. He prouds himself of having a very sophisticated palate, a fact which hasn’t done wonders to his physique despite that, because when he isn’t indulging, he’s dieting, it is what he does. 

It’s because he was fat growing up.  
He is still plump and it is his true weakness because it indicates a loss of control over himself and if there is one thing he likes to exude it is that he is a man in control, regarding _everything_.

Despite the fully acceptable standards of both food and comfort, he stubbornly refuses to take advantage of that for the first two days, declining both bed and substance. His body already begins to protests on the first evening of incarceration but he is The Ice Man after all, and sometimes he can agree with his brother about the body being mere transport. He is a great mind first and foremost, so he sits on the chair and waits. 

When nothing happens and the hours pass by, he finally relents to at least take advantage of the bed, taking a rest. Eventually he does fall asleep and when he wakes up he is ravenous but tampers down the instinct, tries to ignore the alluring smell of the food that is presented four times a day, breakfast, lunch, afternoon tea and dinner. 

He is especially surprised by the afternoon tea. It indicates civility and is more than just a mere cup of tea. It’s served with both a scone, clotted cream and jam as well as milk, sugar and a lemon slice to go with the actual tea. Again, nothing fancy, it’s not Dorchester standard or anything, but still, it’s a nice touch and the tea is actually what finally gets him in the end.  
Tea isn’t food per se and it can be seen as him signalling that he has a certain level of standard when he chooses to go for the tea instead of the food, so on the third day he pours himself some from the steaming pot and takes a hesitant sip. 

It could all be poisoned of course and there is a risk with what he does, but by now his resolve isn’t up to what it usually is and he carefully drinks the whole cup, sip by sip, trying to feel for any type of deviation in taste but unable to find any. That doesn’t have to mean that it isn’t poisoned, there are plenty of tasteless poisons out there, and he actually spends the next hour feeling for signs of nausea, stomach cramps or headache, but nothing happens. So when breakfast arrives the next morning he takes some more tea and a scone with marmalade. 

His stomach immediately radiates a warmth that comes from finally being offered substance and the familiar feeling of hunger he has felt several times during his life time, when depriving himself from food on account of a diet, kicks in with a vengeance. It’s dangerous because he knows what usually follows. He overindulges instead, despite knowing better, but he is always alone and unobserved when doing that. He doesn’t know for certain but suspects that there is some type of surveillance in the room and he is not willing to show off that weakness to anyone, whoever they might be.

So far he hasn’t been given any clues.  
He spent the first day going through a substantial list of enemies and also other types of threats which could result in the kidnapping of him, but without any clues it could frankly be anyone. But if you consider the way he was abducted it would indicate some sort of knowledge about him as a person and his habits. Nothing overtly personal of course, not even Anthea is that knowledgeable about who Mycroft truly is, but there is something about the method that indicate some insight. 

And then there is the food issue of course.

That’s the biggest clue when he really thinks about it.

People are aware that he is dieting, he wouldn’t be able to pull it off otherwise, the urge to eat the way he did growing up is too great, he has the aid of both his PA as well as a nutrician, a dietician and his physician of course.  
Then there is Sherlock and by extension people who know Sherlock and have met Mycroft, they all know.  
His parents and every relative who has ever seen Mycroft as the overweight child from before, they are also aware, because he isn’t fat the way he used to be, despite what his brother claims on occasion.  
Everyone is fat compared to his lithe brother, but Mycroft knows that he isn’t truly anymore. He doesn’t jiggle the way he did growing up. He’s merely pudgy now, he has a soft middle and a chin that tends to be a double one, but his limbs aren’t fat, he doesn’t have anything beyond the normal plumpness of an office worker who spends a very sedentary life.  
Some of his colleagues also know because it’s difficult to hide that you are dieting when you spend so much time together at lunches and meetings, but it’s nothing unusual about it, many people do it and especially people with his type of body who don’t really work out or move that much on a daily basis. He isn’t the only one.

But there is something about the offer of food in this situation that is off.  
That it is on offer in the first place for example, and four times a day at that. And the above subpar quality of it. It means something and that is also a part of why he takes his time before he succumbs.

Because in the end he does.  
The tea and the occasional scone eventually becomes the whole breakfast and then a bite or two of the dinner.  
When he finishes a full meal for the first time he feels guilt rush all over him, like he has indulged in a large bowl of candy instead of just having eaten a perfectly normal meal consisting of potatoes, pork and steamed cauliflower. That’s not even _bad_ food, it’s just food. 

The problem is that he has nothing else to do but eat. 

No one has come to see him yet, even when a whole week has passed. It feels like he has been put in a cage like a half-forgotten pet and someone is feeding him and providing toilet paper but not bothering with giving him any extra attention beyond that.  
Like the hamster he was given as a child.  
He didn’t care for animals, still doesn’t, and when the initial phase of obligingly taking care of it and taking it out of the cage and petting it when his parents wanted him to, he soon forgot about it. He gave it food and water, cleaned the cage with huge resistance but then he somehow forgot and one day the hamster was lying dead, probably having starved to death. 

Mycroft never told his parents, he acted appropriately sad and they buried it in the garden. The didn’t give hm another pet after that though and the next animal they got was a dog for Sherlock. Redbeard.  
Sherlock was more devoted to that dog than he was to any human being, Mycroft remembers with a sting of resentment.  
Mycroft never cared for it but he never disliked it actively either, despite all the affection his brother was giving it and not him. When it died Sherlock was beyond himself with grief. Stupid sentiment.

When he realises that no one is apparently going to seek him out actively and tell him why he has been taken, it worries him a bit.  
Usually when someone of his status is abducted, people tend to get negotiations started, people always want something and are willing to trade. He is a man of huge importance after all, he has both power and knowledge worthy to anyone with any insight into these matters.

Of course, in some cases there is the vengeance issue, a person who seeks retaliation and Mycroft can come up with a substantial number of people who might hold a grudge against him, but that scenario usually involves some gloating, letting the victim know the reason of the abduction etc. He hasn’t been subjected to any of that, quite the contrary. 

This silence is unorthodox, and he can’t figure out the purpose.  
It’s not even a question of torture as the bed is comfortable enough and the food keeps coming regularly, it’s like he has been sent to a retreat where can contemplate his thoughts in peace and quiet. Not that Mycroft needs this to do that, he is alone a lot, he has plenty of time to spend inside his own head, it’s the second best company imaginable for him.  
But still, he doesn’t like the idea of not knowing what’s going on and it begins to pick away at his mind the longer he stays in this room.

Therefore, he eats.

Already on his second week he notices that the portions are somewhat larger and contains a few added components, like more bread, sauce, more vegetables, sausages added to what used to be only meat and so forth.  
What is this, Hansel and Gretel? Is someone trying to fatten him up for some reason? Push the button on a percieved weakness?

Determinedly he decides to not eat the new additions and just keeps to eating what he has been eating before. 

But boredom is driving him to desperate measures and by the end of the second week he eats the rest as well.  
He tries to not think about it, it’s still just food, there’s no indulgence involved, except for the scones with clotted cream and jam that comes with the afternoon tea. But another voice in his head supplies that the reason for him constantly being on a diet is because he is so inactive, the amount of calories, whatever the food source, will always be more than what he burns, even when it is just ordinary meals. 

Boredom was part of the reason why he ate as a child.  
It was addictive, the rush he got when treating himself, especially to something sugary or full of saturated fat, it took away all the buzzing he felt constantly like a bee’s nest in his head when trying to survive his unstimulated life at home and in school.  
It was a vicious circle, because he knew that he hated himself for being weak and giving in to his overeating, but the boredom was so much worse. Food was a quick fix, instant gratification and easily obtained.  
He can understand why Sherlock took so easily to drugs, he was always bored as well, they have that in common.

Then Mycroft went to university, finally got challenged sufficiently to make it out of the hamster wheel that was his previous mind-numbing existance and he stopped indulging. The tricky part wasn’t so much that he needed to stave off boredom anymore, it was that his body had gotten used to a certain amount of intake, so he went on his first diet after his twenty-third birthday and never looked back. The body was forced to learn.

What he is doing now is the first time he has truly forgone his restrictions regarding food and when desserts make an appearance by the beginning of the third week his mind no longer screams No! with huge neon bright letters inside his head as he takes a spoonful of pudding, trifle or tarte which subsequently turns in to two spoons, then half of the bowl and eventually the whole portion by the end of the week. 

He wonders what this is, who has anything to gain from keeping him here? Is it some sort of experiment? Is it to pinpoint a specific weakness of his or is he slowly being poisoned without realising it? 

He also wonders if someone on the outside has caught on to his captors yet? Is anyone coming for him? 

As he lies on the bed, one hand on his slightly protruding stomach, exceptionally full after a huge dinner consisting of a large bowl of pasta Primavera, garlic bread and Tiramisu for dessert, his mind starts to wander over the possibility that the game or whatever this is, isn’t going to reach an end until something specific happens and he wonders if _he_ is supposed to do something to make that specific event occur.  
He has been impassive ever since getting caught and ending up in here. He has tried sitting it out, simply waiting, he has eaten the food, slept in the bed, paced the room, but there is nothing in here. He can’t even figure out if the room is under surveillance because he hasn’t been able to spot anything that could be a hidden camera.  
He knows all the tricks in the book, it’s what he does for a living after all, not to mention that he frequently spies on Sherlock, he should be able to spot one, but he can’t and that strangely makes him even more distressed, because it indicates that he isn’t even worthy of keeping an eye on. 

The food is slotted in through a hatchway in the door, the hand pushing the plate is gloved and he can’t deduce anything from it, it’s simply a regular nitrile glove.  
He is truly abandoned in here and it is beginning to chip away at his resolve to remain above the situation.  
He will not be tricked into doing something out of character for him, he knows how to play for the long game, but this is ridiculous, he needs something more than food to occupy himself or he truly will fall back on to what he was like growing up.

He thinks of Sherlock and wonders if his brother has been brought to attention regarding Mycroft’s absence. It’s not entirely sure.  
Anthea isn’t too fond of Sherlock and at the same time she harbours supressed sexual feelings for him, it makes for a complicated attitude and Mycroft isn’t completely sure she would reach out to him, despite circumstances.  
It also depends on the people who have him. Have they made anyone aware of his kidnapping or have they managed to fool people into thinking Mycroft is somewhere where he isn’t? What if people think he’s dead? That’s also a possibility.  
Well, if that is the case, surely Sherlock must have been notified of the situation and there is no way his brother would just take that as fact without one of his “investigations” first. Mycroft always did ridicule him a bit for his desire to be a detective when they were younger, but under these circumstances it would be grateful if he actually put in the effort to try and track Mycroft down. 

He would probably be able to read more from this room than Mycroft can, he has a way with deductions that is like a parlour trick except it isn’t, because Sherlock tries to make a living out of it and he gets really defensive when Mycroft asks why he simply can’t take a normal job, work with Mycroft for instance, he could arrange a position. They argue and Sherlock will hiss like an alley-cat because vitriol is what he does best, and Mycroft will steel himself for the onslaught and no one will be happy in the end. They have always been like this.

Except for that one year. The year before he began his diet, when was Mycroft 22 and Sherlock 15. 

He shakes his head where he is lying on the bed, turning on his side, feeling his stomach move uncomfortably from the movement, pushing against the button. He won’t think of that now. He almost never does. 

The food keeps on coming and he keeps on eating. 

He isn’t surprised when his trouser begin to feel a bit tight and he wonders how much weight he has gained since ending up in here. He finds the thought sending shivers of something ambiguous down his spine. This is so familiar.  
He remembers feeling like this when he was a teenager, after having eaten something he definitely shouldn’t have, such as too much cake. His mother would scold him and he cheeks burned red because he liked the sensation of his full stomach and tight trousers.  
It was forbidden to be a glutton in the Holmes family, Mycroft really was the only one.  
Until the day he found something else. 

The sensation of his tight trousers reminds him of that _other_ occasion when his trousers felt several sizes too small and he immediately relieves the pressure by opening the button, cameras be damned, sighing with a combination of relief and disappointment. He can’t go there, that is far worse than being a glutton, it’s so bad he can’t even touch upon the word itself.  
He almost never thinks about it anymore, despite seeing his brother on a fairly regular basis. It’s safer to watch him from the distance of a surveillance camera. 

He manages to push his thoughts back into the box where they belong, not buttoning his trousers until he is sure they wont cause too much pressure against his lower abdomen, deciding not to eat the scone when tea time comes. 

Despite the unbuttoning of his trousers being a very subtle gesture, it finally results in a reaction from whoever is holding him locked up.  
Unfortunately, it is not at all what Mycroft had expected and it end up with him going completely cold inside before, with utter indignity, throwing up all over his shoes.  
Because when the tea tray arrives an hour after he has buttoned up his trousers again, there is an envelope next to the scone, neatly tucked in under the small bowl with clotted cream. The envelope contains a photograph.  
It’s of Sherlock, but not Sherlock the way he looks like now. It’s a school photo from when he was 15. 

The soiled shoes are being kicked off his feet when he’s done.  
He doesn’t have the luxury of running water except from the water in the toilet bowl and he flat-out refuses to sink so low as to wash anything with sewage water, so he does his outmost to not touch anything with his hands. He kicks the shoes into a corner and goes over to the table, sitting himself heavily down on the chair, ignoring the tray and the photo altogether.  
He has rather shown his hand though by reacting the way he did and this is also confirmation that someone is indeed watching him, despite the fact that he hasn’t figured out how yet. The food thing and his newly developed eating habits could be deduced by what he leaves on the plates, recently nothing at all, but he is certain that the incident with the button must be the key here. It’s the only thing he has done differently from all the other days.  
But who knows of this? Who has the ability to know the significance of his straining trousers on account of well-hidden desires, food or other ones?

 

Sherlock of course, but he never breathed a word of it, not during that whole year and not afterwards either.  
He is acerbic towards Mycroft these days but that’s hardly new, they developed that rapport years ago, Sherlock has simply refined it.  
It’s even difficult to say who has the upper hand in their relationship now, because Sherlock knows how Mycroft feels about him but Mycroft has all his connections and the power that comes with his occupation, the intruding surveillance and the agents who spy on his brother, the more Sherlock wants to break free, the more Mycroft want’s to keep him under his control.  
It’s a struggle that will most likely rage between them for as long as they live. Sherlock claims that he will only be 40, everything beyond that is merely a waste of time, Mycroft wows that he will do his best to intercept that idea.

But beyond their squabbling and thorny interactions full of well-aimed insults and digs, they have never discussed the year when Sherlock was 15 and suddenly blossomed into a young man instead of a boy, all long limbs, lithe and elegant, dark curls in a jumble on his head and feral eyes peeking out beneath them.  
The cheekbones, the full lips, the long throat, it was all suddenly there, as by magic and Mycroft, age 22, fully grown, at the peak of his weight gain, an adult now, no longer a bored teenager, he had cast a first evaluating glance at his brother for the first time since coming home after being absent for two whole years, and he had been floored. 

It was the beginning of July and Sherlock was home from school, lounging in a garden chair, swimming in the nearby lake, bending over his microscope, drinking lemonade from a straw of all things, pushing his wayward curls from his forehead with a nonchalant hand gesture, driving Mycroft completely mad with lust. It was the first time the tightness of his trousers was not on account of him eating too much but his cheeks turned the same shade of red as they did when his mother scolded him for stuffing himself. 

It took until the end of the month for Sherlock to catch on and by August Mycroft had him bent over a table in the garden shed behind the house. He felt terrible about it of course but was at the same time unable to stop himself despite the terrible guilt that was plaguing him whenever he wasn’t in the presence of his brother. It was like being constantly thirsty, it could never be enough.

Then came autumn and jealousy replaced guilt when Sherlock had to go back to school and Mycroft’s presence was demanded in London.  
He argued with himself over the terrible sin he was committing by doing this to his brother, it made him unable to think rationally and it also made him lose his appetite for the first time in his life. Hunger for food was replaced with hunger for his brother, like the way he had stuffed his face with sweets and fat, he now felt the urge to have his brother in his presence at all times, driving up to the school for impromptu visits on several occasions, inviting the boy over to spend weekends with him at his flat in London and so forth.  
When he wasn’t with Sherlock his mind was constantly occupied with thoughts of him, always wondering about what he was doing, jealously seething over who he was spending his time with and he found one weakness being replaced by another. 

The difference was of course that food didn’t cause any real harm, it was a more or less an accepted form of addiction. It would eventually clog up his arteries and give him a fatty liver, but that would be years from now and no one except his parents were really frowning when he stuffed his face with another éclair. 

But this thing with Sherlock, that was not something anyone would ever accept or condone, not society, not family or his colleagues, not anyone.  
Lust was such a more dangerous vice and it was clouding his judgement in a way no food had ever been able to do. The added element of it being illegal and his brother being so young just added to the terrible sense of doom he felt from the time he woke up to the time he fell asleep. It was all he could think about.

The turning point came after Christmas when Sherlock announced that he was going to spend a few days with another boy he had met at school, causing Mycroft to, in full jealousy, pound into Sherlock in his brother’s bedroom, the door locked, their parents asleep downstairs, causing more pain than pleasure but not bothering about anything more than to cause as much agony for his brother as he was feeling at that precise moment. 

Sherlock left the next morning while Mycroft was still sleeping and that was the last time they did anything sexual with each other.  
Sherlock came back after New Year’s eve with a hickey on his neck and Mycroft decided that this couldn’t go on, he would lose himself completely if he continued this frenzied affair with his brother which was causing him nothing but heartache and guilt, not to mention the impact it was having on Sherlock, too young to know any better and with the destructive streak of a bona fide tornado, he would bring both himself and everyone around him to complete ruin if continuing down this path and Mycroft didn’t want to be an accomplice any longer.  
So he ended it by simply removing himself from the board, stopping the invites to shared weekends at his London flat, not coming to family functions any longer and not even showing up for graduation when school was over for Sherlock.  
They didn’t see each other for two full years and when they finally did meet, Sherlock now 17, still as glorious but out of control, was also a drug addict and no longer interested in anything to do with Mycroft. 

Mycroft knows this story by heart, he did spend a good portion of his early to mid-twenties ruminating over these events and their impact on both him and his brother while at the same time ending all weaknesses by wowing to never ever succumb again, thus beginning the dieting but also putting a stop to any further intimate relationships. No more weaknesses for him, time to be what people began to call The Ice Man. 

And he has done well for himself. Sherlock will be 30 in three years time, Mycroft is well past that age and they have found their place in life, more or less. Mycroft still has the need to know what his brother is doing on an almost daily basis, he never did manage to completely lose control, just as he sometimes cheats on his diet, but small lapses doesn’t mean anything, they don’t cause any lasting effects.  
Until now.

He is pretty sure that whoever this is who has abducted him and put him in this room with the offerings of food and now a photo of his little brother from the exact year of their debauchery, isn’t actually Sherlock himself. If Mycroft is not inclined to talk about the past, Sherlock is even more set against it, it’s simply not done. 

But the question remains: who is it that knows their secret and what is it that person wants to accomplish?

By throwing up at the sight of Sherlock’s innocent school photo he has rather shown his hand, if he hadn’t already. But it seems this person already knows everything about Mycroft’s mind set from that period of time.  
About the food, and the hunger and the lust.  
About Sherlock.

This frightens him more than anything, because it could ruin their lives.  
He has often wondered if he didn’t already do that to Sherlock, ruin him. If it was perhaps his fault that his brother turned to drug abuse, if it's the reason why Sherlock's so reckless and careless about his life, living like he has got nothing to lose. Maybe Mycroft stole Sherlock’s chance to happiness from him that year, turned it into something sordid and poisonous, despite the fact that Sherlock has never accused him of anything afterwards.  
He will probably never know for certain.

The hours go, the tray is being taken back, along with the photo, carefully put back in the envelope by Mycroft.  
When dinner comes, he doesn’t touch it but he places his soiled shoes on the tray so they can be removed from the room. The smell reminds him of his deeds, and he can’t stand it, and as he suspected, they are taken with the tray of untouched food and are not to be seen again.

He feels vulnerable without his shoes but on the other hand he has been exposed open and raw for whomever is watching him, a pair of shoes can’t provide him with sufficient armour against anything.

He goes back to not touching the food again.  
It feels poisonous to him now, he can’t stomach it any longer when he knows that it is part of a provocation.  
He sits on the chair, simply staring in front of him and it is surprisingly easy being indifferent and cold when he has been cultivating that persona for years. 

He loses count of time eventually, but it doesn’t matter. He drinks the water and breaks a piece of the bread from the lunch plate everyday but other than that, he just sits there, waiting. 

One day the waiting is over by the sound of commotion on the outside. He doesn’t turn his head towards the door, simply waits for whatever is happening on the other side to result in something of significance to him. 

The door is eventually barged down, people filling up the room and when asked about his name he states it. A few seconds later Sherlock marches in, accompanied by that Detective Inspector Mycroft hates with a passion he never acknowledges to himself and they both look him over, searching for injuries, signs of abuse or other clues to his status. 

Sherlock is surprised by Mycroft’s relatively healthy appearance, he even comments on him not having lost any weight despite being incarcerated. Mycroft thinks that he has both gained and then lost the weight again during his stay in the room but does not say anything about it.  
He will not have this conversation with his brother.

Sherlock and the Detective Inspector ask him questions about his time in the room, Sherlock more bombarding him with them than actually asking, causing the policeman to put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder to reign him in. Mycroft notes with distaste that Sherlock allows that physical gesture which is surprising considering that he no longer likes people touching him. A fact Mycroft has also wondered if it is on account of what they did all those years ago. He can’t very well ask though.

Sherlock wonders if he will be needing an ambulance but Mycroft declines. He wants to go home.  
While he waits for his car to arrive, he goes with Sherlock through the building in which he was being kept.

“How can you not know who did this to you?” Sherlock complains. “They must have wanted something. No one would bother with taking you just for keeping you locked up in a room for a couple of weeks. There has to be a point to it!”

Mycroft thinks that there certainly was a point of sorts, a game and it was aimed at him, but what it resulted in and why someone would do this, he has no idea.  
He looks at his brother and wonders if he should perhaps tell him about the photo at least. It might be a clue, even if Mycroft can’t figure out who was behind it from what he knows.  
But then he decides against it. Sherlock would demand more information and it would lead to opening up all sorts of old wounds, Mycroft isn’t in the mood for any of that, probably never will be. 

He never told Sherlock he was sorry for what he did that Christmas. He isn’t sure he actually is sorry. That hickey was so red and mocking when Sherlock returned from his stay with that other boy, the look in his eye defiant.

So instead of saying anything he trudges along after Sherlock while his brother investigates the small building. It’s just a kitchen and another room, aside from the one he was kept in, nothing specific in it. No traces of any surveillance equipment. 

His shoes are found on the kitchen table, still soiled but it has dried up now, still smelly but not disgusting like when he last saw them.  
Sherlock eyes both him and the shoes with suspicion and surprise, asking what happened to them despite probably being able to deduce what the stains are made of. Mycroft gives a non-committed grunt, not really offering any true explanation and Sherlock’s eyes narrow even more at this but he doesn’t say anything. 

In the garbage bin outside there are left-overs from some of the meals he was served as well as empty plastic containers where the food originally must have been delivered in. That explains the average quality, it wasn’t cooked in the kitchen, it was brought here from somewhere else. 

Mycroft’s car arrives and he goes home alone to take a shower, have some tea and go to sleep. He wants nothing more than to forget everything. Tomorrow he will return to work.

Sherlock remains investigating the case and he does have a breakthrough when managing to track down the lorry that was bringing the food to the building. The company delivers to many places and can’t recollect anything strange about the orders, they were delivered and accepted by an man who simply signed for the food, never said anything and none of the drivers remember anything out of the ordinary about it. The man looked non-descript, brown hair, average height, normal build, no distinctive features. 

“I am afraid we have hit an end with this. The man is gone, no fingerprints available, the DNA we have managed to procure matches nothing in the system,” the Detective Inspector informs Mycroft over a hardly passable cup of coffee in his office at Scotland Yard a week later. Mycroft had hoped for Sherlock to have been there but is informed that his brother is busy, not willing to let go of the case just yet.

“You know how he gets, hates losing and all that, never could let a loose thread remain untouched. But I must regrettably inform you that this case will continue to be unsolved for now, Mr Holmes and we are shutting it down. There is simply too little to go on, whoever did this left nothing behind, not even a motive that we can work with. It’s all very strange. “

Mycroft rises from his chair. He has no whish to stay here any longer, he has already put this behind him, along with the rest of his past. He isn’t even sure he wants to know the answer to why he was subjected to it, considering the subject.

He is back on his diet and he watches Sherlock from a distance through the cameras like he always used to do. Everything is like it always was, The Ice Man is back in place. The fact that he has returned to the office one day after having been kidnapped is a true testament of that character, his colleagues are stunned and think he’s cold and detached from normal human behaviour, but they say nothing and he doesn’t offer any explanations. 

“Funny thing though,” he hears the Detective Inspector drone on behind his back and he sighs inwardly, because he just wants to leave, but politeness prevents him from actually doing that. This is Sherlock's friend after all, or whatever he is to his brother during the nights.

“Sherlock said he bumped in to an old acquaintance while investigating this case. Pure incident really. It was the owner of the food delivery company. Sherlock reacted on the name, thought it sounded familiar and checked it out. Didn’t pay the man a visit though, said it would be embarrassing considering the man’s occupation, Sherlock apparently always thought the man would amount to something else.”

Mycroft smiles a bit strained but doesn’t offer any words. He is tired and wants to leave, he has done his part, the case will be put to rest and he can leave it behind him. He isn’t willing to conduct an investigation on his own, who knows what will come up to the surface if he begins digging? 

“Oh,” he says, not managing to feign sufficient interest in what the other man is saying. An old acquaintance of Sherlock’s is most likely someone from his drug using days and Mycroft has no interest in any person from that time in his brother’s life, he’s just grateful that it is all behind them now.  
The fact that Sherlock mentioned embarrassment is a testament that Mycroft’s right in his suspicions, it would be embarrassing to bump in to someone you once knew when doing drugs, now having a normal life and a normal if somewhat boring occupation. No wonder Sherlock would sneer at that, his own life being what it is. The other man would probably think he was still on drugs.

The Detective Inspector keeps on talking.

“Yes, can’t remember what Sherlock said his name was. It was something Irish though, starting with an M. Know who that is?”

Mycroft shakes his head slightly.

“I am not that invested in people my brother associated with in the past,” he says and then quickly says good bye. He hears the other man begin to say something more but doesn’t pay attention to what it is, simply walks out the door and closes it firmly behind his back.

The Detective Inspector watches him go and takes a sip of his lukewarm coffee, mumbling partly to himself , partly to the retreating figure who is making his way towards the elevator:

“Yeah, I can get your point, you cold bastard. I was never interested in who my sisters shagged when we were growing up either, so I can relate to not caring about someone from your brother’s past. And besides, why would you remember someone your brother met for a Christmas fling when he was 15? That’s ancient history anyhow.”

With that he puts down his coffee mug and gets back to work.


End file.
